


Waiting in the Dark

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-13
Updated: 2006-05-13
Packaged: 2019-01-19 19:18:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12416367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Severus Snape is searching for meaning in what he is afraid to know. He can't understand how he keeps getting curved answers to straight questions. He is the crooked knight. He is the deciever. He wants revenge for his dilution.





	Waiting in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

_**Waiting in the Dark** _

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__

There was a crooked knight who kept his shield hidden. Somewhere no one could find it. When he tried to pull out his sword, it would stick in its scabbard. He was a crooked knight because he was the reflection of knighthood in a cracked mirror and what he did, he did backwards.

__

This crooked knight had no armor, but he carried many weapons. Too many weapons. But that was because of the crookedness. He was tall and thin, ugly and graceless. He was not chivalrous and no squire would want to serve him. He was a deceiver and his life was built upon a lie.

__

He was very strong. His strength was the strength of ten, because he had learned the lesson of power. And because he had a heart stained with anger.

__

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****

Chapter 1: Burning the Liars

****

 

“We will build tall pyres and burn the liars. We will watch the flames gyre and hear the choir.”

When I was younger and desperate to metaphor everything, whether it moved or not, I used to think that maybe their was a reason the priest was called a holy man. No one in my life has never quite looked at sincere as him when it came to telling lies.

__

Someone light a fire on the church spire.

__

Part of my routine in coming to church was to silently mock the parson. With the fat fool flapping around and coming up with the most stupid of rhymes, you can imagine that it wasn’t difficult. And it felt good. My only revenge for being brought to church.

“Through the fire we must look to our sire. Give us no pyre, you who are higher.”

__

Lets watch the fire burn the church choir. Give the fat liar his own special pyre. 

__

Our church was always full of reverent silence, as though everyone present was learning some great secret worth knowing. I used to sit in the midst of this hush and fume about how awful it was to sit in a room full of detestable muggles and listen to an idiot harp on about a god and a devil. 

_Like there was much difference,_ my grandfather would sneer _._

There was no difference at all, I would nod fervently.

_What mudbloods were looking for when they came to church was an explanation of power,_ my grandfather would point out, his face contorted into its usual disgusted expression when it came to talk about muggles. _So they get handed a divine helping of God every Sunday._

So he explained. 

“Show us Lord, how to attain salvation,” hollered the priest. 

And I didn’t want the reason of power thin and watered down. So I closed my ears. And kept my eyes open. Kept my head high. Told myself that I was simply better than they were. At ten years old, I was no longer as impressionable, or innocent as someone my age had a right to be. I knew, I thought anyways, that there was only the superiority of blood, or birth. Something my grandfather had instilled in me at a tender age. 

“We ask for nothing but redemption and your love.”

He made sure though, that I understood that I was, under no circumstance, to consider myself as worthy as a pureblood. _Don’t you ever forget who your father is_ , he would say to me nastily. Then he would give me an irritated glance that took in all my features. My father’s features. 

_Things like these don’t just rub off,_ grandfather would say when talking about blood. Or lack of it. So I’d go home and stare in the mirror. Fill myself up with anger and drift in it, choke in it every time I glimpsed my father. However, occasionally, my grandfather would say the thing that would allow me to keep my pride, give me a glimmer of hope.

_You’re still half a Prince,_ he would reason _. And that is why I am teaching you. That’s what will get your somewhere._

Half _his_ child. Half a Prince. The mathematics of it were rather brutal.

“Let us pray!” the parson shouted. “Offer your hearts to the Lord.”

My mother and father spent all their time in church with their heads bent in prayer, looking so devoted. Offering their hearts to the “Lord”. 

Rather pathetic in my opinion. 

They would pray and I would sit and think. Every Sunday, it was the same place, the same boredom, the same lesson learned since the first time my mother dragged me in here.

“Lord keep us safe and deliver us from evil.”

My mother shuffled her feet slightly. A warning. My father would notice my inattentiveness soon. But I was feeling rather reckless at the moment. I looked around brazenly. In a week I would be able leave, and finally show the world what I knew. I had been pining to go to Hogwarts ever since I had first held my grandfather’s wand.

“Lord hear our prayer,” the congregation murmured.

She shot me a fleeting look. I simply stared at her. Her and her meek faith in a loving world. My grandfather had explained my mother to me. He had picked apart his daughter like a quidditch play gone awry. I had thought it tremendously funny at the time, when he had told me; to know what my mother was really thinking behind her sad eyes.

“Holy Father, may we fear and respect you, and love you above all else.”

“Severus,” a cool voice cut into my musing. I snapped my head down. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my father regarding me with a silent stare.

This punishment would definitely be harsh.

“Lord hear our prayer.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My mother shot me a frightened glance. I kept my face expressionless. She quickly turned around to face the front of the car as my father limped to the door. 

The car door opened and then banged shut. There was silence. Then again, it was always quiet. My father was a man of few words; he used silence to put fear in others. But my father was also an angry man. I still hate , absolutely loath , to admit that he frightened me. I, someone who had the ability of hexing him into oblivion.

“I am disappointed,” he said coldly as he started the car, “Disgusted.”

Mother looked as though she would say something. She shot my father a sideways look. My mother was always shooting glances. 

She could never properly _look_ at something.

“Do you have anything to add Eileen?” he asked her quietly; cruelly.

“No,” said my mother meekly, her dark eyes fixing on to the floor.

“I will not tolerate disobedience and disrespect. While you are in church, you will listen to priest and try to purge yourself of your sins. You should be asking God to forgive you,” he said in the same cold, flat voice. 

I could see my mother looking at me hesitantly. I kept my gaze straight ahead. “Yes father,” I said in a respectful tone. My insides were burning with anger; it was a familiar friend. 

“As punishment you will not be allowed to visit your grandfather’s,” he spat out the word, “house today.”

The deathblow. He knew it was all I had to look forward to.

My father disliked magic you see; a blind ignorant muggle. My grandfather explained it to me when I was young. 

My grandfather reasoned that my father had a fixture for power. That was why he kept my mother downtrodden. That is why he was always trying to intimidate me. He liked to feel empowered. And magic, he supposedly felt, took that power away from him. Because we could control things in ways he could never begin to imagine.

Looking back on it, that analysis was decidedly sharp, with a bit of malice thrown in. The flavour of my grandfather.

My grandfather always has lots of things to say about my father. He always used to enquire about him, and when I told him what my father had done that week, my grandfather did his weekly play-by-play of my father‘s action. Like he is another interesting specimen he might have examined when he used to work at the Department of Mysteries. It amused my grandfather. And I suppose it gave him an outlet in which he could channel his spite.

When I was young, I used to be bursting with stories to tell my grandfather. In a way, his criticisms were lessons too. I learned how to dissect people. In a sense, I received yet another book to learn off by heart. I learned how to study humans, their motives, what made them hurt, cry, what caused them to kill. My grandfather explained that people like my mother did things for their own good. _When your mother cries she wants something_ , my grandfather warned me. _Just like when she married_ him, he spat, _she wanted to prove something._

I had no idea why my mother, pureblood of the great Prince family, would marry such filth and diluted the bloodline. 

And that is what I was. My father said it, my mother knew it, the Princes’ sneered it when they thought I wasn’t around. A dilution.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“We only have a few hours,” my mother whispered to me as she quickly took out her wand and prodded the tiny fireplace. She handed me some Floo powder and then quickly looked around the room when there was a loud creak.

“It‘s probably just the cat,” she murmured, fumbling with her cloak fastenings. 

“Father?” I asked quietly.

“I slipped him a sleeping potion. Your grandfather was going to take you, but…” she trailed off not looking up from the fire.

“I hate church,” I said coldly, “I hate your God and I hate going there.”

When I was angry, I always had a peculiar effect over my mother. I think it was because I looked and sounded so much like my father. Or maybe it was because she was used to being bullied by males.

“It is for your best Severus,” she mumbled her eyes fixed on the fire, “You’re father doesn’t understand-”

“Well the maybe you should clear things up for him,” I said icily.

My mother looked up at me, desperation in her eyes. “He’s just trying to raise you the way-”

“I hate him,” I cut her off and then strode past her and threw my powder into the fire. “Diagon Alley,” I said clearly and then spun out of sight, catching a glimpse of her overcast face.

Hate was a strong word. And one I never used lightly.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Could you point me to your second hand robes?” my mother asked the shopkeeper as we entered a robe shop. 

I rolled my eyes in disgust as I quickly made my way to the back of the shop. My mother never had much sense of pride, or shame for that matter. She was a Prince. How could she bear telling the world we were poor?

“Do you need any help dear?” she asked as I riffled through a pile of dusty robes that all shared an unpleasant stench of rotten spleenwort.

“I am quite fine mother,” I said coldly as she shuffled over to where I stood.

“Severus,” she said hesitantly. I looked over to where she stood, in the midst of a towering pile of mouldy looking boots. Her dark eyes looked sad. “I’m sorry you can’t go to your grandfather’s. He sent me a few more books for you, and said he would like you come to next week.”

Another reason I loathed my father, because he hated my grandfather. Also because my grandfather despised him. 

I was in awe of my grandfather; I admired, respected and possibly even loved him. I don’t know if I have the capability to love. But I cared for him above all others. He was always just simply my idol. I had been enamoured with him ever since I was a young child and he first took me into his study and handed me a stack full of books to read. I couldn’t understand half the words or any of the ideas but I knew them by heart in a week. 

I think I was my grandfather’s project in a way. My grandfather was very displeased with my mother’s choice of a husband; he never spoken to her again. He only used to send short notes to her, regarding when I should be coming over. My grandfather always saw my mother as a failed venture. He wanted to get it right with me. Even my uncle Maddox, my grandfather believed was another one of his schemes gone wrong.

“He went and wasted his life,” my grandfather snarled one day after Uncle Maddox had been in the study for a few moments, looking up some curses. “If I had known all the idiot would accomplish would be how kiss the hem of that half blood’s robes and follow his orders, I wouldn’t have wasted my time.”

Uncle Maddox was head of the department of experimental charms. A department that was not very high up on my grandfather’s list. He was also a follower of Lord Voldemort, who at the time was not very well known. They had been in the same house and year at Hogwarts. My grandfather, of course didn’t approve of upstart half bloods, no matter who their ancestor was.

One would ask where I fit into the mix.

“Gaunts are half crazy anyways,” Grandfather had muttered one afternoon after having argued with my uncle that morning. “Crazy cross eyed Marvolo. Used to act like Princes were dirt compared with his superior inbreeding.” Grandfather motioned towards the family tree tapestry, “Like we don’t also come from Peverell.” My grandfather knew everyone’s lineage, family and all the stories associated. So did I, soon after this incident. 

You see, I had to make weekly visits to my grandfather. However these weren’t visits so much as they were regular lessons. Lessons in the dusty study of the Prince manor where I would learn and learn and learn. Therefore, my childhood consisted mainly of being neglected or yelled at by my father, and when that didn’t happen, I was patronized and ordered about by my grandfather.

“Do you like this cloak?” my mother asked holding up a black one. It was faded and had a little patch in one corner. Probably one of the best in the store.

“Sure,” I said noncommittally, looking around to see if anyone recognizable was in the shop. 

“I can just fix it up a little for you,” she said brightly.

I didn’t say anything. Soon she had scrounged up a second hand wardrobe for me. I just stood silently as she scurried around.

“Where would you like to go next?” she asked cheerfully as we exited the shop. My mother always did this annoying thing of trying to be extremely nice when my father wasn’t around. Frankly, I found it irritating as a teen. If she was mute all the time, I used to think, then she might actually be useful. 

“I don’t care,” I said sullenly. She looked over at me and her smile dimmed a bit. If I had known better, I would have realized that I had hurt her feelings.

“Well you have all your potions ingredients and spell books,” she said quickly, “We could go to Ollivander if you wanted. Or find-”

“Ollivanders,” I said abruptly. 

“Okay,” she said looking a little put out. I knew I wasn’t making it easy for her, but that wasn’t my problem.

Ollivander’s looked very ancient, worn, and derelict. Maybe it was the peeling letters. It could have been the dusty smell of old books. It could have even been old Mr Ollivander himself.

“Ahh Mrs Snape,” he said grasping the tips of her fingers. As they exchanged pleasantries I looked around. Shelves upon shelves of boxes, tables crowded with toppling books, diagrams and charts littered the floors. Such dedication to a branch of magic was rather intriguing. Grandfather always mentioned Mr Ollivander was extraordinary and very well learned; they had worked together in the Department of Mysteries. 

“And young master Snape,” he said his pale eyes fixing me. “Your grandfather has mentioned you to me. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

I did not know my grandfather even cared to mention to other people he had a half-blood grandson. This was something to be attentive to.

“You have come, I suppose, to purchase your first wand?” he asked me already flitting around the high stacked shelves.

“Yes,” I said. I could hardly wait and find my wand. I had studied the different cores and woods of wands very carefully under my grandfather. I knew what I wanted. A strong powerful wood like beech or elder. A dragon heartstring core. The most potent combination. My grandfather had a birch wand, with a core of heartstring. His was very powerful. 

“I’m sure your mother remembers first coming here with your grandfather Tydeus,” Mr Ollivander said pulling out a few long, thin boxes from under a pile of spell books. “Ten inches, ash, very forceful. Still a bit prickly at times, I imagine?” he asked mother as he began unpacking the boxes and handing me a wand.

“I’ve gotten used to the splinters” mother said, smiling slightly.

“Just give it a wave,” Mr Ollivander said as I looked at the wand, attempting to identify it’s grain.

“Ebony, eleven and a quarter inches, unicorn hair. A bit rigid,” Mr Ollivander said as I waved it around. Nothing happened. Thankfully, what a ridiculous combination.

Another quickly replaced it. “Elder, phoenix feather, twelve inches. Excellent for transfiguration.”

I grew excited. A good combination. I became quickly disappointed when nothing happened when I waved it around.

So I went through a mound of wands, becoming progressively more anxious with each one.

“Hm, tricky,” Mr Ollivander said from atop a ladder as he sifted through a pile.

Mother was sitting on the spindly chair looking absently in the air. “I’m sure you’ll find it,” she said.

“Here’s one. Hawthorn, unicorn hair, twelve and a half inches. Finer quality. Excellent for older magic.”

I slowly took the wand. It had taken all that I had heard about Mr Ollivander’s reputation from scoffing at him. Hawthorn and unicorn hair indeed.

To my utter dismay when I took the wand and gave it a hopeless wave there was a jolt in the wand and it emitted silver sparks. Hawthorn!!!

Mr Ollivander looked a little surprised as he set down the wand box. 

I couldn’t believe it. This could not be happening.

“Excellent,” said Mr Ollivander now beaming, “A superb wand. Hawthorn specializes in older magic. Excellent for protective spells. Enchantments.”

Enchantments. Protection spells. Ancient magic. What Mr Ollivander was trying to say was that it was a _light_ magic wand. Hawthorn was associated with, of all things, love. 

I felt disappointed. I felt sick. I looked down at the reddish brown wand clutched in my hand. How could this happen to me? It was so disgraceful. What would grandfather say>

“I’ll just wrap that up for you,” Mr Ollivander said taking it from my hand. My mother gave me a curious look. I am sure she knew the properties of hawthorn too.

“That will be eleven galleons,” Mr Ollivander said. 

My mother nodded and pulled out her moneybag as I stood unmoved, still shocked from having chosen such an embarrassing wand.

“Pleased with your wand Mr Snape?” Mr Ollivander asked, his pale eyes gleaming in my direction. I quickly rearranged my face.

“I’m not over partial to hawthorn,” I said carefully. “I was hoping-”

“For a beech wand? Yew, mahogany? “Mr Ollivander asked, smiling. “Powerful woods do not make powerful wizards Mr Snape. It’s not only about combination. All the wands in this shop are potent. It is what you do with your wand, your mental abilities that will determine you potency as a wizard.”

I tried my best to look convinced.

“Your wand requires a great deal of intent behind the spells. Contrary to what your grandfather may say, the makeup of your wand may prove to be the least important piece of information.” 

I just looked at him. He just had to be wrong. 

Mr Ollivander just smiled knowingly. He was decidedly strange. Maybe all the dust in the shop was going to his head.

“Well we have to be off,” mother said, putting her moneybag back in pocket. “Goodbye Mr Ollivander,” she said waving.

“Thank-you,” I said automatically and followed her, glad to be away from Mr Ollivander’s pale that looked like they knew a little too much for my liking.

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“What prohibited you from coming last week?” Grandfather asked sternly from where he sat behind his desk as I came through the fireplace.

Grandfather was never one to waste words. Or one to put up with someone who did. 

I had this funny way of categorizing my grandfather when I was younger. When he entered the study, he would always take off his hat, roll up his sleeves, stick a pipe in his mouth and put on his glasses. I rarely saw this kind of man outside the book lined walls of the study. 

He once told about people wearing masks of deception. So, in my child’s mind, I began imagining everyone’s masks. I imagined that when my grandfather entered the study, he took off his Tydeus Prince mask and became someone else. Someone a little nicer.

It’s hard to explain. My mother, I imagined, was always masked. It was always the same one and it would never budge. It was an ugly mask; listless, and flawed. It was cracked in a lot of places. Let you glimpse what was underneath. And the mask, I imagined, wasn’t hiding anything nice.

Grandfather always had many masks. Masks on masks. There was the angry father. That one I came to realize early. I saw that one the most. Sometimes the angry father would be hiding the lonely old man. I only came to realize that when I was much older though. It was kind of thing that never really occurs at the time.

My father did not have many masks. He had one that he hung up on the wall and only took off for church. There was another mask he put on for work. Kept in his back pocket so he could always slide it on. It was a lot nicer than his face. I wish he could have kept it on. It would have made my childhood a little more bearable.

Grandfather, however, didn’t like my ideas about people and masks when I told him what I thought. He told me right away to get all the stupid poetical nonsense out of my head and threatened to curse me if I ever thought it again.

That was when I learned the law of conservation. It wasn’t really to necessary to any longer tell grandfather all of my thoughts.

“I was punished for not paying attention in church,” I said.

Grandfather nodded approvingly. “Good,” he said. “Filthy mudbloods,” he sneered, “Was _he_ angry?”

By _he,_ my grandfather meant my father. He said he found it unpleasant to say his name.

“Yes sir.”

“Did you get your wand?” 

“Yes sir,” I said again. I didn’t give it to him though. But my grandfather could sense that something was wrong. I wasn’t very good at occulumency yet and grandfather was a very accomplished legilimens. He bored into my eyes and I found myself remembering Mr Ollivander’s knowing smile while I clutched at the box.

“Let me see it,” he said sighing.

I drew it out of my pocket and placed it in his outstretched hand. Best to get it over with.

He took out a glass and began examining it thoroughly. It watched apprehensively.

He shook his iron-grey mane out off his shoulders and held the wand up to the light. He pressed his own wand against it and muttered something. This carried on for a few minutes. Finally, he looked up. His eyes were two chips of ice. 

It was the familiar look; disappointment.

“This is a hawthorn wand,” he said as if it was the most ridiculous thing in the world. “With a unicorn core. A light magic wand. A protection wand.” 

I just stood there and kept my eyes on the wand in his hands.

“Severus, I expected better of you,” he said crossly, dropping the wand on to his desk. “I’m very disappointed. Even your mother and your uncle managed to choose powerful wands.”

He said this all very coldly. My grandfather had an icy temper. My father was always very fiery and loud.

You could say I was continually frozen and thawed.

I suppose I could have argued with him. Pointed out it was the wand that chose the wizard. However, arguing with my grandfather was rather futile. All it would result in would be pinch of Floo powder to get myself home and stony silence until I wrote an apology.

“Did you read the books?” he asked, changing the subject. I handed him the stack of books that had been my assigned reading. They were mainly regarding dangerous and illegal curses from the 17th century.

“Yes grandfather,” I said as he motioned over to the side of the room where a few cauldrons were simmering.

“I have a few potions I need whipped up for my colleagues. I will give you ten minutes. Then we will put your wand through its paces with the new curses you have learned,” he said focusing on a sheaf of parchment in front of him.

I nodded respectfully. The potions weren’t too tricky. Grandfather hadn’t left me all the necessary ingredients though. He did that to test my skills. But I had always been good at making do.

I didn’t mind potions, but what I really wanted to be doing was trying those spells.

It seemed like a very long time before grandfather looked up from his work and saw me sitting in front of five clean cauldrons with filled vials in front of me.

He nodded and glanced at the vials. “I’ll be checking those. Now follow me,” he said, sweeping out of the study and walking briskly down the corridor.

There were no canes or old age sag for my grandfather. 

He led me on the well-trodden path to the low chamber in the house. It had at one point been akin to some kind of dungeon but now was more of a duelling chamber where I weekly learned painful lessons. I used my grandfather’s old wands then. Now I had my own. 

“I want to see you put emphasis on the hexes. They are much more complex. And no foolish wand waving. Keep your movements precise and agile.”

“Yes Grandfather,” I said pulling out my wand. I bowed. He inclined his head. We both took steps away. And turned.

My grandfather started the events. He simply waved his wand and I felt as though someone was punching me in the stomach. I doubled over, the floor coming a little too close for my liking. Blood spurted out of my nose. I could feel myself retching. 

Blood slowly drip off my face into an oozing pile on the cold stone. 

If it was any improvement, my wand was still, however, clutched in my hand.

My grandfather just watched from where he stood a few meters away. His face was impassive.

I managed a look up at him. I could feel something well up in me. My hands shook as I pointed my wand. “Levicorpus,” I whispered. I had been saving this spell for when I finally had my real wand.

Grandfather got a peculiar look over his face as he effortlessly blocked my spell. 

“Did you make that yourself?” he asked curiously, crossing his arms. I was still stretched out over the cold stone floor. 

“Yes,” I said wincing as I tried to sit up. Blood slowly leaked down my face

Drip. Drip. Drip. It sounded rather eerie in the empty, cold, dungeon.

He nodded his head. “Well done.” He turned to leave. “You will clean up and we will talk about your spell.”

He left me sprawling on the floor. It was a familiar routine.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I am pleased at your progress,” he said when I finally came back to the study, clean and healed.

“I read all the Latin texts and spell theories last year and began devising that particular spell,” I said nervously, playing with my hands. I was worried what he would say. 

“Yes, I do recall your reading those,” grandfather said absently. He was focused on the spell, which he had written down on a parchment.

“Do not tell of this ability to others. Most wizards become nervous of people devising their own spells.”

I nodded. He regarded me for a moment before asking.

“So are you ready for Hogwarts?”

“Very much sir,” I said, “I am eager to be away from my parents.”

“I can imagine,” he said dryly, “I hope you will not have the same problems you had with your wand when it comes to the sorting. I would be very displeased if you did not end up Slytherin. Ravenclaw, I can understand. But you can imagine my wrath if you get placed with glory hounds of Gryffindor,” he said grimacing.

“I think I would leave if I was placed in Gryffindor grandfather,” I said quickly.

He grunted in agreement. “Be prepared for the animosity Severus,” he said lacing his fingers together, “Attitudes are changing. Some of the old families, the ones from Slytherin, are starting to rally behind that upstart your uncle seems to fond of. Lines are being drawn,” he said and for the first time I noticed that he looked at bit strained. I had been wondering why he seemed rather subdued this meeting.

“The Princes in general have not fallen behind him or shown dislike for him, but your uncle is making it a difficult place for us. The Ministry is starting to look internally for any of his supporters. Your uncle’s days at the ministry are numbered of course. We were neutral during Grindlewald as well, so you must understand Severus, the delicacy of the situation,” he said to me with furrowed brows. I got the point at once.

“I will be careful what I say,” I said, internally bursting with pride that he considered me such a viable member of the family that he would take pains to inform me of the careful neutrality in which we hung. I felt a bit confused as well. I could ask my grandfather to analzye other people for me, but who would I go to and ask when it came to figuring out Tydeus Prince’s actions. I could understand his dislike of a halfblood descendant of the crazy Gaunts, but why was he set on being so impartial? Didn’t he always say he hated muggles? Wouldn’t he want them gone too? I certainly would have a pleasanter life without them. At the time, there wasn’t a single muggle that had done ever anything kind for me.

It would take a while for that to change.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That day is one that stands out in my memory. Not because of the short duel or even what my grandfather told me about Lord Voldemort, but because of my mother. She had to come pick me up after that visit because our living room at the time was in use by my father who was entertaining a relative. My father would have been furious if I ever popped out of the fireplace while one of my horrible uncles was there. But then again he got angry at most displays of magic.

Therefore, she had to come to the manor. The last time she had been there she was shown the door after announcing whom she was going to marry. I have gathered though, that there was a rather heated exchange of words before she had walked out.

My grandmother had been dead for a few years. My uncle was out. She was rather lucky in her timing.

Grandfather had looked out the window after hearing the doorbell ring and when he had come back from the curtain, he was livid.

“Your mother,” he said coldly, “Has decided to grace us with her presence.”

I had been shocked. I gathered all my books and made a mad dash to the door, two floors down. Grandfather followed some distance behind.

“What are you doing here?” I hissed, wrenching open the door to her very surprised face.

“You father has company over, you couldn’t just Floo,” she said quietly.

I had trouble restraining the urge to roll my eyes. “Well let’s go then” I said hurriedly, crossing the threshold, wanting to get away before the confrontation with my grandfather arrived.

I suppose I would be rather ashamed if I really ever uncovered what caused me to have a jolt of panic when I saw my mother at the doorstep. If I had been so alarmed because I _cared_ for her. 

“Severus?” she said confusedly.

“Let’s go,” I said pulling on her sleeve, trying to drag her along.

“Ah Eileen.” We both swivelled around to see grandfather standing in the doorway. 

“I have to say that it is decidedly unpleasant to see you,” he said frostily, his eyes glittering with anger.

Mother stiffened, “Father,” she said impassively. I noticed her fists clenching. 

“And what brings you to my doorstep?” he snapped. “I thought I made it clear that I didn’t want to see you here.”

“I had to pick Severus up. He couldn’t Floo to our house,” she said her eyes averted. It seemed to be causing her a great deal of effort to stand there.

And then there was me. Standing there, balancing a pile of books on one arm and grasping my mother’s sleeve in the other. My grandfather glowered, intimidating in all his height and sharp features, clearly ready to let out a rant that had been building for almost eleven years. Mother just stood there.

“Er…well we should be going then. Goodbye grandfather,” I had said nervously, tugging at my mother’s sleeve.

“It’s revolting,” grandfather spat, “To see you again, still that mudblood’s puppet. Still follow all his order’s, don’t you? Tell me Eileen, what happened to your Gobstones career? Threw it away for a dead end muggle job did you?” he sneered.

“I’m sorry to hear father,” mother had said slowly looking up at grandfather, “That you are still angry.”

“Oh yes, you believe in forgiveness don’t you Eileen?” he asked mockingly. “Happy little world, aren’t we?”

“I am content,” my mother said shrugging.

“Oh yes,” grandfather said nastily, “Your husband treats you quite well, doesn’t he?”

“No worse than you,” mother shot back, suddenly vehement. She seemed to be going more pale than usual.

Grandfather gave a short dry laugh. “You must understand Severus. Your mother can’t lay the blame on herself. She finds me quite an easy target,” he said to me.

“I would have hoped father, that you would have been above poisoning your grandson against his mother over petty little things,” said mother coldly. 

And so my mother and grandfather both slowly started to attack each other’s wounds.

“Poison? Is there a need? You and your husband seem to be failing quite well yourself!” Grandfather spat. 

“I imagine that you know a great deal about good parenting!” Mother said furiously, her eyes flashing dangerously. “You still act as though your family are all projects that can get you somewhere. You are trying to do the same thing you did with Maddox and I. Trying to make Severus into you, teaching him all those curses and methods and your overblown ideas! You just want another Prince to have a top-level job like you did. I think you’re much more a glory hound than you’ll admit. I wonder if you care for a thing in your life either than the family‘s honour!” Mother was now glaring at grandfather as though she would very much like to curse him.

“Well I suppose someone needs to see to the family honour as others have none for themselves. After being so taken with mudbloods, I‘m sure you don‘t realize that!” Grandfather bellowed.

“You know this is exactly why I left! You and your stupid ideas about blood!” Mother shouted. I had never seen her shout before.

Grandfather looked even more enraged, “Yes and so you left to prove that a Prince could marry a mudblood! Out of spite! That is all that Severus is to you! A product of your spite. Another thing to wave in my face, to provide evidence that you’ve disobeyed me!”

And at that moment, that become the unanswerable question of my life.

It was as though the world had fallen out and left me stranded in the middle. Someone had taken my world and left me with a fragile, frightened grip on life. Like suddenly the air was too much to take in and the sun was too bright. Like suddenly it seemed distinctly unfair to be me.

I found myself turning to my mother. She had turned deathly pale. “That’s not true,” she said to grandfather.

She turned and saw me watching with her with horror. “It’s not true Severus,” she said desperately, her eyes filling with tears. There was a pang in my chest. I looked away quickly.

“I hope you’re happy Eileen,” Grandfather said viciously and then after nodding to me, he turned around and slammed the door shut.

Leaving me with my mother. She had tears streaming of her eyes, as stared at the closed door.

I seethed. How could I have never seen it before? My grandfather had dropped so many hints. It made so much sense. I was the product of hate. And I had been so convinced that my mother had always cared for me. I suppose some of this was my fault too. For not understanding the most important concept grandfather had taught me. 

Human nature.

“Do you think it is wrong, Severus, to keep fighting when the war is over?” my mother asked in a tired voice, her eyes still fixed on the door.

I looked at her. Actually looked at her. She was kind of slumped over. She was seemed very thin and insignificant then. 

I felt something grow in my chest. It was hate. It was as though some had shot it into my veins. I could feel my revulsion towards growing inside of me.

“I suppose,” I said unemotionally. Later, much later I would be asked this question again. I still don’t know if my response was the right one.

“I think your grandfather needs to hear that,” she said simply, taking her eyes off the door and fixing them on the window to the place where my grandfather spent most of his time, his study.

I just stood there silently.

She looked at me searchingly. I tried to look unfazed.

“Your grandfather said a great deal of wrong things today,” she said quietly. “I just want you to know. I didn’t marry your father because you grandfather was against it. I married him because I loved him.”

I took all my strength to not burst out laughing. Love indeed. A very nice place it had landed her too.

“I’m sorry you had to witness this today,” she said in the same quiet tone. “And I’m sorry that you had to hear all these awful things.”

I still remained silent. I could feel tears prick in the corners of my eyes. They weren’t tears of sadness, they were tears of anger. I wanted revenge.

Revenge for having her as my mother. Revenge for who my father was. For having to be a dilution of the Prince bloodline.

And mostly I wanted revenge for the lie I had for a life. 

 


End file.
